Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  “My lady!” the servant shrieked. “What are you doing? Where are you going? Lord Guillaume gave me strict orders…”

  Linet pinned the cloak closed and raked her fingers through her hair.

  “My…my lady! You’re not even properly dressed! You’ve no kirtle, no slippers. I haven’t even run a comb through—”

  “No time. I must go now,” Linet chanted breathlessly. “I must go now.”

  A specter couldn’t have flown more swiftly from the room. Still, by the time she rushed down the cold stone steps, raced across the deserted courtyard, and bolted through the barbican gate, drawing the curious stares of the guards above, the procession was already cresting Gallow’s Hill.

  With a whimper of despair, she picked up her skirts and ran up the long, twisting road. Sharp rocks and wayward thistles cut the soles of her feet. Once, she tripped on the hem of her cloak, wrenching her ankle, and fell heavily to the ground, tearing the frail fabric of her shift and bloodying her knees. She staggered to her feet and cast off the culprit cloak, but still she ran, favoring her injured leg, closing the distance between her and Gallow’s Hill.

  Limping forward, she caught up at last with the stragglers in the crowd. Ahead, the ominous finger of the gallows pointed accusingly at the heavens. Suddenly she was chilled by the disabling thought of the souls that had departed there unshriven, souls like her beggar. She quickly crossed herself and continued.

  Duncan betrayed no fear when the cart ceased its jostling and rolled to a stop. He wasn’t afraid to die. As a knight, he faced death every day. Nay, what he felt was frustration.

  It was bitterly ironic that he, Duncan de Ware—expert swordsman, heir to one of the wealthiest estates in the land, loyal vassal answering to King Edward himself, hero of the common man—was about to die nameless, the death of a pauper, unable to defend himself against a crime he hadn’t committed. The futility of his life crushed him.

  A burly man, his face covered by an ominous black hood, wrenched the chain loose from the cart and shoved him forward. Duncan stumbled and fell against the side of the cart, bruising his tender ribs, unable to catch himself with his bound hands. Brutally, the executioner pushed him from the cart and up the incline toward a whipping post. Mischievous boys threw sticks and pebbles. Their fathers spat obscenities.

  Still too far away, Linet cursed in despair as they dragged her beggar forward. God help him, he was going bravely. She cried out for them to halt, but her hoarse, breathless voice was lost in the taunting of the mob.

  His gait, though awkward, never faltered. When he reached the post and faced that crowd from the stained wooden block that served as a floor, fierce pride burned in his cold sapphire eyes. Even when Lord Guillaume stepped before him, the venom of the nobleman’s gaze couldn’t cow him.

  Linet pushed and prodded her way forward through the stubborn wall of spectators, shrieking at them to cease, but it was too late. The blood was already hot in their veins.

  Duncan felt the bloodlust surround him like a wash of molten lead.

  “Have you any last words to say?” Lord Guillaume hissed.

  Duncan fixed him with a steady, icy stare and spoke in a low rasp, just loud enough for the lord to hear. “I am a de Ware. Tell Linet de Montfort that she may wear the trappings of nobility, but she doesn’t know the first thing about being a lady.”

  Lord Guillaume sputtered in outrage and nodded to the executioner. The great hooded beast raised a fist and smote Duncan heavily across the face.

  Linet gasped, along with half of the ladies in the crowd, as the beggar’s head drooped.

  “Prisoner!” Lord Guillaume shouted.

  Slowly, the beggar lifted his head. Linet sobbed when she saw the fresh cut under his eye and the trickle of blood wandering like a tear down his cheek.

  “Prepare to receive the lash for your crime,” the lord advised, signaling the whipsman.

  The hooded man wheeled the beggar around and wrenched his arms up to attach the shackles to the whipping post. Then he backed away and unfurled his whip so it writhed on the ground like a languorous snake ready to bite.

  Time seemed to slow as Linet reached forward, running with dreamlike sluggishness toward the man bound to the whipping post. The eager cries about her grew muffled, and with sudden acute vision, she perceived the subtle clenching of the beggar’s fingers, the tensing of his body as he anticipated the sting of the lash.

  Suddenly, she heard a scream, as if from a distance, some tortured soul crying “Nay!” All eyes turned to her. At last breaking free of the mob, she surged forward to the platform. She dropped on her knees to the wood block, ignoring the sharp pain as she added her own blood to the stains there, and spread her arms wide, placing herself between the beggar and the lash.

  The whip had already begun its descent. Linet cringed but held her ground. As the menacing lash sliced through the air, Lord Guillaume cried out, “Linet! No!”

  The whipsman managed to snap the lash back in mid-flight. It fell short of the block, whistling its complaint and slithering harmlessly on the ground. Lord Guillaume clapped a hand to his chest in relief.

  Rage and humiliation filled Duncan. What was Linet doing here? Was it not enough that she’d caused his ignoble end? Did she have to witness his shame?

  “Begone, woman,” he growled at her.

  “Linet! Niece!” Lord Guillaume cried, clearly distraught. “You were not to be present for this.”

  “Please,” Linet begged her uncle in a voice raw with emotion, “please don’t flog him.”

  Duncan scowled. Surely he’d heard wrong. He glared at her over his shoulder. She was on her knees in supplication, her hair loose and uncombed, her feet bare. Bloody hell, she wasn’t even dressed. The fine white linen of her shift was so insubstantial that it was nearly transparent. He clamped his jaw shut, confused by mixed feelings of anger and pity, and tore his eyes away.

  The man in black who’d been studying the scene with cool detachment from the midst of the crowd now took a sudden interest in the strange turn of events. The wench’s plea had an entirely different effect on him. His gloved hand tightened on the pale, feminine fingers draped over his arm, and the corners of his mouth twisted downward.

  Up to now, Sombra had found the spectacle highly amusing. It seemed the rogue beggar from the Corona Negra had managed to procure his own execution—without Sombra’s intervention. But that cursed wool merchant had just stepped in the way, literally. And worse, if the pained look on Lord Guillaume’s face was any indication, she’d already earned her uncle’s trust.

  There was no time to waste. He’d have to make his move now or lose his chance. Schooling his features into an expression of great offense, he raised his voice. “Linet? Niece? What outrage is this?”

  Lord Guillaume almost looked thankful for the distraction. “Who speaks?”

  Sombra stepped forward with his imposter. “I am Don Ferdinand Alfonso de Compostela, and I am appalled by the travesty I see before me!”

  The wool merchant blanched at his words. The beggar wrenched futilely against his bonds. But Sombra ignored them. They were as harmless as pups now.

  “How dare you call this…this half-naked strumpet your kin when I bring your true niece to you myself?”

  With a flourish, he presented the girl, who sank into an elegant curtsey with no prodding from him.

  Sombra smiled appreciatively. He’d certainly chosen the right wench for the task. She was taller than the real Linet de Montfort. Her hair was a bit less blonde, her eyes a murkier green. Though her looks paled in comparison to the blushing beauty of the real woman, she wasn’t uncomely. But, working as a whore to the nobility for so long, she’d picked up some of the graces of that class. With the medallion about her neck and her cultured manner, she’d easily fool the lord.

  Linet felt for an instant as if she were looking into a mirror, a mirror that subtly distorted the features of her face. Though she could see the de Montfort medallion swinging forward
in the sunlight as the strange woman curtseyed, Linet reached up reflexively between her own breasts in disbelief, as if it might somehow still lie there. But Sombra had indeed stolen it, cleanly and easily. And with it, he’d stolen her birthright.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She’d come to that point at last—the point where a warp too tightly wound and a weft of faulty dye and a skipped thread all converged to create an irreconcilable flaw in the fabric. She’d made too many mistakes. She’d trusted the wrong people. She’d betrayed the wrong people. And now she would pay dearly for it—with her title, with her trade, with her servant, who was surely dead, with her heart, and possibly with her soul.

  Linet gazed at Lord Guillaume through a watery veil of tears. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet. How like her father he was—outwardly strict and demanding, all bellow, but inside, blunted claws. Even now he looked as if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he wanted to believe Linet.

  She could convince him. There were things she knew about Lord Aucassin that no imposter could possibly duplicate. There were her looks—Linet had her father’s eyes. There was her impeccable knowledge of the family line. And she had the word of the Guild. Aye, it might take time to unravel the wayward threads of her ordeal, but it could be done.

  Yet what would it gain her? She could prove she was indeed Linet de Montfort. But how would it preserve her father’s pride and her promise unless she also claimed that the beggar had ravished her against her will? And if she did that, was she not condemning him to death?

  She clamped her eyes shut. There was no easy answer. She had to choose. Would she cling to her nobility, or would she confess her soul’s longing? It was not a dilemma solved as one solved trade matters, by scrawling calculations on parchment. She had to listen to her heart. Fate had left the decision in her hands. It burned there like a cinder in her fingers.

  The whipsman impatiently tapped the butt of the lash against his palm. Lord Guillaume knitted his brows. The crowd whispered, waiting.

  And at last her heart spoke to her.

  She lifted her chin. “I beseech you, my lord, to spare this man from the lash. He is not guilty of the crime for which you punish him.” Her voice quavered. “I am.”

  The mob of peasants gasped collectively at this new development. Linet awaited her uncle’s word like a prisoner awaiting sentencing. Lord Guillaume only blinked at her in confusion.

  “What are you saying?” he asked quietly at long last.

  “Oh, my lord, forgive me,” she said, her voice breaking. “I can’t let him bear the blame for what has passed. It’s all my fault.”

  “So you are not Linet de—”

  “He’s my lover,” she blurted.

  “Nay!” the beggar snarled.

  The crowd hushed. Lord Guillaume stared at her a long time, his face painted in lines of bewilderment. “There is no need for you to protect him, Linet,” he said sternly. “I assure you, he knew full well his crime when he committed it. If you are upset by the bloodlust here, perhaps you had best return to the keep.”

  “Nay!” she shouted. “I won’t leave him!” She added in a murmur, “I won’t leave him again. I…” She gazed at the beggar, her beggar, bound to the whipping post. “I love him.”

  Whispers of amazement echoed through the crowd like wind through a wheat field.

  “So you deny that you are Lady Linet de Montfort?” Lord Guillaume growled. “You claim instead that you are this…this monk’s mistress?”

  Words wouldn’t pass her lips when she saw the bleak resignation in Lord Guillaume’s face. Instead, she nodded her assent.

  Lord Guillaume waved to the executioner with obvious reluctance, releasing the beggar from the whipping post. Then he closed the key to the prisoner’s shackles within Linet’s hand. “He is yours then,” he whispered, clasping her hand tightly. He dug in his pouch and pulled forth a piece of silver. “My servants will escort you to the harbor at Calais, to a ship bound for England. The coin is for your passage…home.” His eyes were bleary and red, and his chin quivered as he made the next pronouncement. “Henceforth, you are duly exiled from this holding and all lands belonging to de Montfort.”

  The weight of what she’d done sank upon her like a smothering cloak. Silent tears streamed unchecked down her face as her uncle turned his back on her and prepared to take the imposter to his bosom.

  She couldn’t watch. Around her, the crowd of spectators dispersed, muttering in disappointment at the bloodless outcome, and the procession filed back toward the castle. Soon no one was left on Gallow’s Hill but her, the shackled beggar, and a half dozen crows that hopped about, baffled by the absence of spoils. She wiped her bleary eyes, clutching the key in her fist. Slowly she rose on shaky legs, plucking the sticky linen from her bloody knees, and turned to face the man for whom she’d sacrificed everything.

  The gratitude, the relief, the adoration she expected from him were nowhere to be found. He looked down his nose at her with eyes as flat and gray as a sea squall and a sneer of disdain so intense it almost made her recoil. Her heart felt as if it would break.

  Duncan forced himself to look over her head. He ignored the bloodstains on the front of her shift and the womanly curves beneath it. He made himself think only of her deceit, her betrayal, not of the price she’d paid.

  He was no fool. She’d only saved his life because she feared the damnation of her soul if he should die. The woman was heartless. Twice her tempting fire had burned him. He’d not be burned again. He closed his eyes to her and hardened his heart.

  Linet felt as if she skated on the thin ice of her emotions. “Give me your shackles,” she bid him in a faltering voice. “I’ll free you.”

  With a sullen glare, he turned and walked away, speaking over his shoulder. “I would rather live in chains the rest of my life than be beholden to you for my freedom.”

  “Please.” she whispered after him. “Forgive me, I pray you.”

  “You’ll have to look to God for absolution. After what you’ve done, I’d be a fool to offer you forgiveness.”

  “Please, don’t go!” she cried.

  He stopped in his tracks, but he refused to turn around or acknowledge her. She stared helplessly at the muscular back she’d caressed only last night, the thick black curls she’d run her hand through, and swallowed the despair that threatened to choke her. Dear God, she’d lost him, too.

  Despondent, she circled until she stood directly before him. How she yearned to rest her head upon that wide chest, to feel his arms secure around her. But she knew she’d find no comfort there today. Fresh tears filled her eyes. She took one of his unresponsive hands in hers and pressed the shackle key into it.

  Then, with a soft cry, she rushed blindly off—homeless, nameless, loveless.

  El Gallo crumpled the neatly scrawled parchment in his fist and threw it to the deck. He’d have done the same with the messenger—that wool merchant’s quaking old servant—had they not been in port, under the watchful eye of the Flemish magistrate. Fury rose in him like a boil, making the veins of his forehead bulge with ire.

  “So,” he bit out, flecks of spittle popping from his mouth as he spoke, “Sombra thinks to prick me with his great accomplishment.”

  He twisted the hairs of his beard. This whole de Montfort ordeal had been a curse to him at every turn. First he’d been humiliated and robbed in England. Then his attempts to seek retribution at the spring fair had been foiled. There was one glorious moment when he’d held the wool merchant captive on his ship. But even that had been short-lived. He’d lost two of his best men somewhere in Flanders. God alone knew if they yet breathed.

  But this! This was the crowning glory of his shame. According to the missive, Sombra had somehow managed to not only find the de Montfort wench, but also to tweak fate to his benefit. The wily Spaniard had endeared himself to the de Montfort family with an imposter. Sombra was returning to Spain a rich man.


  The envy was bitter on El Gallo’s tongue. But he was not one to accept defeat, even when he could taste it. The battle was not over.

  “And yet,” he thought aloud, combing his fingers through the strands of his beard, “perhaps Sombra has not been so clever, eh? He let the real de Montfort wench go. It is only a matter of time before she sails for England, for her home. There is certain to be proof of her birthright there—her father’s possessions, a legal document, some heirloom trinket perhaps, an illuminated family Bible—items that will prove beyond doubt that she is the real heiress.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And of course, it would be remiss of me to not offer my ship and my escort for her safe passage back to Flanders to reclaim her title—her title and my reward for restoring the true heiress to de Montfort.” He barked out a laugh. “To think, I for once will be doing the noble thing.” The thought tickled him immensely. “Perhaps my countrymen will return my holdings in Spain to me for my good deed, eh, Harold? What do you think?”

  The servant cowered, ready to bolt. But El Gallo wrapped a companionable arm around the skinny old man, nearly crushing him in his embrace. “No, no, my friend. You will stay with me now. Together we will right this terrible wrong!”

  His hearty belch and guffaw ruined the effect of nobility he was striving to achieve, but it was of no consequence. There were preparations to make—crewmen to round up from the brothels, a week’s provisions to procure, the unfortunate death of Sombra to plan. It was nearly sunset now. He wanted the Corona Negra to sail at midnight.

  The waves lapped gently against the planking of the barnacled English vessel. The canvas of its sails snapped in the crisp breeze. Ordinarily, that sound would have stirred adventure in Duncan’s spirit. But this morning, each smack of cloth sounded and seemed like a slap across the face. His head throbbed with dull pain, and he groaned, keeping his breakfast down by sheer dint of will. He didn’t want to think about what would happen when they rounded the arm of the inlet and headed for the open sea. He was probably a sorry sight, purple with bruises and green with nausea, leaning upon the ship’s railing. Never again, he swore, would he drown his woes in drink.